


I'm Dreaming of a Drunk Christmas

by KuriNCIS (KuriKoer)



Series: Wake Up Call [9]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Christmas, Eggnog, M/M, Silly, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuriKoer/pseuds/KuriNCIS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Office parties, holiday traditions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Dreaming of a Drunk Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: takes place before the series

He didn't drink much, not even in social situations, but there were occasions when... the occasion called for. There were occasions when it would be impolite to be less than buzzed. There were occasions with eggnog.

Palmer's Thanksgivings were mostly spent with his family, but his Christmases were in Washington, snowy and cold and miserable and cheerfully decorated with enough lights to probably be seen from outer space. Far, far in outer space, where Klingons wondered at the sparkling tree at the Navy Yard gate.

"I don't think they can see it from outer space," McGee said, his own eggnog barely touched. "Not the tree."

"It's a very big tree," Palmer slurred. He smiled brightly at McGee and downed his drink.

"Should I call him a cab?", McGee asked Abby, who appeared out of the shadows like a magical vampire queen, or at least that's what Palmer thought. Could be he just wasn't really looking.

"Nah, let him have a couple more," she said, grinning. Palmer grinned back at her. She was such a kind, generous woman. She was handing him another cup of eggnog.

"Enabler," McGee said without rancor. Palmer toasted to their health.

He liked eggnog.

Especially the kind they were serving at NCIS parties, which was sweet and smooth and you hardly felt the bite before it kicked you in the head. He was aware the metaphor lacked some biological reason, but it was less important than filling his cup.

He saw Agent Gibbs passing through the room, a dark storm cloud carried on a much faster breeze than the rest of the crowd; even putting in this brief appearance was probably done as a favor to someone. Agent Gibbs wasn't much of a party guy.

Which was sad, Palmer thought; he would've toasted the man. He would've raised his glass and said, to Agent Gibbs, a man whose cute ass had been underappreciated around this office, due to people's admiration getting in the way, and that's just a shame.

"I didn't say that out loud, did I?," he inquired.

"Said what?", Abby asked, puzzled and a little suspicious.

He said nothing and raised his little paper cup at her, grinning. She clinked her drink to his, not that it made any kind of clinking noise.

"To NCIS," he hazarded.

"To NCIS," she replied, in quite a lot of other people's voices, too. Palmer was pleased. And warm. His toes were warm. He was hot under his collar.

He loosened his tie a bit. It was dark green, with one thin, diagonal stripe of red. It was the closest thing to Christmasy he could find.

"Maybe next year I'll get a tie as cool as Dr. Mallard's," he said to someone standing next to him. He got a very strange glance in response. "Did you see it? Had little Santas on it."

The next thing he knew, he was standing outside the conference room, which was the main party room and the source of all eggnog; he was in the hallway, near an exit, and some fresh air was blowing in from the staircase.

"Thank you," he said, and looked around. McGee was supporting his arm, and Ducky was standing right behind him.

"Welcome," McGee said shortly, and then turned to the doctor. "I can leave him with you now, right?"

"Yes, yes. Go right ahead," Ducky said, waving his hand. McGee made sure one last time that Palmer was supported by the wall, which was probably a good move, and then left.

Palmer stared at the little Santas on Ducky's bowtie. If he squinted, it almost looked like they were dancing.

"Are you feeling better?", Ducky asked kindly.

"Yes," Palmer said.

"Sober?", was the next, hopeful question.

"No," Palmer answered truthfully.

"Well, I suppose we can't expect miracles," Ducky relented, and leaned on the wall next to him. Palmer turned his head sideways to watch him. Carefully. "Abigail will ring for a taxi shortly. Are you well enough to make it home?"

Palmer squinted. "I like your tie," he offered.

"Oh dear," Ducky mumbled.

They stayed by the wall, the friendly, solid wall, for a few more moments before Palmer started sliding gently down. Ducky stopped him, pushing him back up.

"Why don't I help you to the gate," he said, hoisting Palmer's arm around his shoulders.

Palmer leaned in. "Your hair smells nice," he said hopefully.

"You say that every Christmas," Ducky muttered. He then added, with a bit of a rant, "It's a surprise you can smell anything except eggnog."

"I can smell," Palmer said, vaguely offended. "I can taste, too," he added, and licked the very top of Ducky's ear.

There was a part of him, a faraway part, that was panicking. That part seemed adamant about not licking Ducky's ear, which was, of course, ridiculous. He was right next to it. Palmer had no idea what that distant, hysterical part of him was going on about.

"Every Christmas," was the only response, fond, maybe exasperated, but very calming to that faraway part of Palmer that called itself 'appropriate actions'. In fact, that part calmed down so much it was barely audible anymore. It seemed to lean back and observe what the rest of Palmer had to say about business.

"You know, I could just," Palmer slurred, and leaned more heavily on Ducky, who groaned a little at the weight. Or maybe at the hand cupping his backside.

"Mr. Palmer, do try to contain yourself," he said softly. It sounded like he gave up being stern about it a few years ago.

"You're very pretty," Palmer said. He sniffed Ducky's hair again, breathing eggnog on him, then gently kissed his cheek. Meeting with very little resistance, he caressed the side of his face, and moaned at the little sigh when Ducky exhaled.

Then Ducky stiffened, standing up straighter, and Palmer, who was leaning on him almost entirely, stumbled and nearly fell.

"Is the taxi here?", Ducky asked loudly. Palmer looked up.

"Five minutes," Abby said, smirking. "How's Jimmy?"

"Amorous, as per usual." Ducky sighed again, but it was much less fetching than the one before, Palmer thought. This one sounded put upon. The previous one, he thought, was more wistful for some reason. "You really ought to call me sooner, Abigail," he added, admonishing.

She waggled her eyebrows.

" _Before_ he's this drunk," Ducky clarified, coughing in embarrassment. Palmer licked the tip of his ear again, just because it was turning so pink.

"He's enjoying himself," Abby said, and Palmer wanted to nod enthusiastically in agreement. Fortunately, he knew from past experience that he shouldn't move his head. "Where's the harm?"

If Ducky explained to Abby where the harm was, Palmer was no longer a witness to it. He remembered a cab, with a toy swinging back and forth hanging from the mirror; he remembered his front door. The next thing he saw was a gray morning, and the mirror above his sink, showing him a smudged kiss mark in bright red lipstick on his right temple.

"Abby. She's so nice," he mumbled to his reflection. Brushing his teeth to remove all traces of stale eggnog, he tried to remember more of last night.

He had some indistinct memories of dreams, hazy dreams, _good_ dreams. Nothing very explicit, compared to some vivid dreams he'd had when sober, but sweet dreams nonetheless. Something about kissing Ducky behind the big tree at the NCIS gate, under the blinking lights. Or, at least, trying to. How did the dream end? Was there a big yellow box that honked, startling him just when he thought Ducky was about to open his mouth, let him in, kiss him back?

Weird, weird dreams. Palmer shook his head, and then winced when the safety razor nicked him. A hangover was beginning to pinch him around the temples. Something crinkled in his pocket; he fished out a packet of aspirins, one already gone. There was also a note. Palmer washed down another pill and then read it.

'Dear Mr. Palmer,' it started, in Ducky's precise, surprisingly readable handwriting. 'I trust the morning finds you well.'

Palmer swallowed back a wave of mild nausea and some obscure guilt. He wasn't sure why he felt either one of them. He definitely didn't have that many eggnogs, did he?

'You will find acetylsalicylic acid in your pocket,' the note continued. "Thank you," Palmer uttered at the round letters, and then read on. 'I hope you will forgive me for taking the liberty to put it there.'

He blushed. He knew he was blushing, even without looking up into the mirror, which he thought he'd never be able to face again.

'At any rate,' Ducky's handwriting continued, snaking on the page, 'I will see you the day after tomorrow; hopefully, all side effects of your decidedly enjoyable evening will have disappeared by then.'

Palmer sincerely hoped so.

'What a perfectly successful office party it was!', the note ended cheerfully, adding, 'I trust you're on Santa's _nice_ list. Merry Christmas!'

Palmer stared for another moment, and then put the piece of official-letter-headed paper back into his pocket, along with the painkillers. Glancing outside his window, he saw white-gray slush beginning to pile up on the sidewalk.

It was going to be a beautiful Christmas.


End file.
